


In Bloom

by orphan_account



Series: As We Are [2]
Category: K-pop, Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Sequence, Established Relationship, Growing Up, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Relationship(s), Schmoop, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 21:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Because Hongseok, past the bursts of triviality, knows that Jo Jinho is still his person. Knows that Jinho had found him in the depths of hell and pitched a tent to share.





	In Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> **content warning** : there are mentions of eating disorders/mental illnesses but in passing and not in the sense that anyone has them  
>  **note** : this doesn't make as much sense without having read part one.

Their front door is starting to get muddy.

Hongseok grew up with a Peruvian acrylic fibre mat outside his house, that looked and felt like straw; he’s in the habit of brushing the soles of his feet back before he enters a house, like a bull ready to charge, but a lethargic bull, who is preparing for a stroll. Jinho has no such habit though, so what happens is that all the grime Hongseok kicks off outside in the hallway gets dragged in by Jinho when he comes home an hour later. At least Hongseok’s shoes stay clean?

During the winter it’s usually water and ice that seep their way into the dark bamboo floorboards near their entrance, but recently the residue is increasingly speckled with brown. Today there’s even a clump of mud on the left side of the door frame, where the side of Jinho’s loafer must have brushed when he was taking his shoes off. Jinho’s short term balance leaves much to be desired. It’s not just stolen topsoil though; it’s bonafide dirt.

Spring must be here.

“No flies today?” Jinho asks, making his way into the kitchen and seeing Hongseok leaning against the island, phone out and head collapsed.

“No, I think that fly repellent spray Jongdae recommended worked its magic.” Hongseok admits, even if he doesn’t want to.

“What time are we meeting your parents again?” Jinho asks, more because he wants to argue about it some more than because he actually forgot.

“Seven.”

“So eight?”

“Jinho, we’re leaving at six fifty.”

“Eight thirty then?”

“You know I think you actually get along with my mother more than you’re letting on.” Hongseok teases, remembering how the two of them had folded and sealed the envelopes for all two hundred invitations in under ninety minutes, glaring at each other and competitively scrawling addresses down the entire time. The two didn’t even argue, much at least, hands too busy trying to outrun one another.

Hongseok honestly hadn’t been sure if was even going to tell his parents he was going to get married, but he certainly wasn’t going to do it until the actual ceremony was imminent. It’s nice to relish the feeling of waking up and seeing _fiance_ , of opening the door between 6:13 and 6:15 to see _fiance_ , of going to work parties and introducing himself as _fiance_ , without any of the skepticism and underhanded jabs regarding their sexuality or his declining socioeconomic status. Naturally, though, their announcement makes it through the KBS group chats because Jinho is everyone’s favourite munchkin boss, some Singaporean intern recognises him, and soon The Straits Times is covering the Yang’s first son’s “Fabulous Gay Love Affair.”

The Yang’s are on a plane not even the next day to show some public sign of support for their first son, and his mother makes some statement about how she loves Seoul and can’t wait to learn about Korean culture from the Jo’s. Hongseok, impressed that she remembers his fiance’s last name of all things, understands why his parents are here and it comes as a minor inconvenience, but Jinho doesn’t. It takes three promises—that none of Hongseok’s family will stay within two subway stops of their apartment, that neither of their parents will have to meet before the wedding, and that they will never be required to eat more than one meal per day and four meals per week with the Yang’s leading up to the wedding.

Hongseok’s mother isn’t necessarily thrilled with the arrangement, but between the two warring parties he goes home with one and doesn’t with the other, so Hongseok’s priorities aren’t really difficult to sort out.

“I don’t want to get up.” Jinho groans, throwing his jacket off and collapsing on the couch. His forehead looks shinier than usual, but Hongseok doesn’t know if that’s just because the seed of spring has already been planted in his head. There aren’t any sweat stains under Jinho’s arms when he dramatically sprawls his limbs in mock defeat, but then again it’s not like it’s summer. “I just want to stay in.”

“Should we invite them over then?” Hongseok suggests, paddling over to see if Jinho feels warmer. “We can order Thai food.”

“Hm.” Jinho responds, unlike the enthused protests Hongseok was anticipating; Jinho’s temperament has mellowed in the past few days, now that Hongseok thinks about it.

“Really?” Hongseok asks, sitting next to the couch and poking at Jinho’s torso. It doesn’t feel warmer than usual, but he can’t be sure.

“As long as they promise to leave before nine. Your mother’s been nagging about seeing this place anyway.” Jinho sighs, his tone underwhelming reluctant.

“You two are getting along.” Hongseok accuses, laughing and jabbing harder at Jinho’s torso. “What happened? Is she growing on you?”

“Absolutely not she’s still Satan you’re still half demon.” Jinho retorts, squirming, too listless to fight the other off. “I guess we’re in a different place now? It’s not like she can stop us from getting married at this point, so there’s no need to worry.”

Hongseok remembers them making up after their first and last trip to Singapore, and Jinho’s admission of “You don’t seem like mine when you’re with them,” and he has a lot of things to say but it seems futile to just say them.

___

Hongseok meets Jinho’s parents before their 50th day anniversary, after Jinho’s mother notices that Jinho’s Katalk profile photo has two people in it now, and forces them to come for Jinho’s grandmother’s 80th birthday. It’s a little soon, but twenty three year old Hongseok had been new and chalked it up to gay relationships. Maybe gays meet each other’s parents sooner than straight people do? They arrive three days before the holiday itself, after a moderate train ride, and end up at a high rise in the northern half of the city.

It’s a pigeon underwater experience.

It starts when Jinho opens the door to his parents’ place, and Hongseok looks up, expecting to see a chandelier, but is instead greeted with what looks like a dusty, ceramic ceiling nipple and a taupe stain that’s been up there long enough to have homeowners insurance.

So Hongseok knows that not all homes have chandeliers, but the thing is that Hongseok doesn’t actually know that not all homes have chandeliers. Sure, his apartment has never had a chandelier, and neither has Jinho’s, but they’re broke ass bachelors. Are gay guys also called bachelors? Well they’re both broke ass single people, without families, so he expects them to live in filth and depravity. No chandeliers, no doormats, no wood furniture.

Hongseok is definitely not calling Jinho’s parents home filth, or depravity, but he’s put on edge as soon as he walks in and notices the ceiling nipple, dearth of shoe storage, and how Jinho has to throw his whole weight against the front door twice and Hongseok’s left arm to get the door to lock properly. The house is warm, there are fresh flowers on a coffee table and abundant homely clutter all around, but Hongseok is immediately and anxiously aware of how differently they grew up.

He hasn’t brought up the whole trust fund minor Singaporean socialite thing yet, because there’s no way to start that conversation without it ending in unease and discomfort, but walking into Jinho’s family home feels like being put on display. Everyone watching, spectacles on and notepads out, waiting for him to screw up and out himself as an ignorant, privileged fuck. Hongseok wonders if it shows when he slides his shoes off, when he greets Jinho’s parents, when he takes his coat off to throw on a love seat in the corner.

The worries are momentarily interrupted when Jinho’s father sends them to his old room, telling them that dinner will be ready in twenty minutes and to unpack beforehand.

“They do know we’re dating, right?” Hongseok blurts out, and then turns red, flustered at his own implications.

“My aunt and her family are staying in our guest room.” Jinho mutters, embarrassment palpable in his tone. “You can take the floor if you’re going to be an ass about it.”

“But I’m the _guest_!” Hongseok protests, Jinho’s equivocal bashfulness reassuring. They both end up under the covers within minutes, something about public transportation draining even if all you do is sit there.

“We should probably be unpacking.” Jinho notes, turning and burying his face under Hongseok’s shoulder. “So we can at least change out of our pajamas before you meet my parents officially.”

“You’re right.” Hongseok nods, unmoving, concerns emerging through the silence. “We should probably change.”

“My mom’s a little crazy. Your last chance to run home.” Jinho warns. “She’ll definitely like you more than me. She’s always talking about organic apples and how preservatives are ruining my digestive system.”

“The flavour is better.” Hongseok agrees, on principal. “My parents are spending Chuseok in Venice any way; I couldn’t go home if I wanted to.” He finishes, before he loses the nerve.

“Oh.” Jinho replies; Hongseok has verbalised the word ‘parent’ maybe 1,12 times since they’ve met. “Have you talked to them recently?”

“There were photos of them in the newspaper.” Hongseok replies, words dragging. “My aunt is friends with the editor in chief of the Straits Times, and they always have some entry level writer cover anything my family gets up to in an effort to stay relevant.”

“Is that a newspaper? Like Choseon Ilbo?”

“More like the Korea Times or Hankyoreh.” Hongseok corrects. “In any case, your mother can’t be worse than an entire weekend of sitting on my ass.”

“They aren’t… is your mom an actress?” Jinho blurts, head coming up to watch Hongseok’s reaction, eyes bleary yet focused. “Your dad?” He presses, not knowing when he’ll get another chance.

“You haven’t tried Naver?” Hongseok asks wryly.

“Jongdae did.” Jinho admits. “But I didn’t let him tell me. I just went through your Facebook history. You aren’t like, royalty or some shit, are you?”

“My mother’s… comparable to a Singaporean Paris Hilton.” Hongseok sighs. “My dad owns an automobile manufacturing supplier. Nothing artistic, just a lot of money.”

“Money’s still impressive.” Jinho nods, leaning back down to rest an arm and his chin on Hongseok’s chest. “I want the full story since you’re finally talking now. What’s your dramatic, rebellious, rich fuck story?”

It’s anti-climatic, to say the least.

That something that’s tortured him for so long makes its way out so easily, in casual conversation. Hongseok has repressed it to the point where he sometimes forgets he grew up waited on head to toe, the world nothing more than a constantly moving stream of pricey details placed before him and soon replaced. His childhood is either a rueful, immature waste of time or a gilden standard he’ll never climb his way back up to, and nothing in between.

But talking to Jinho makes even the words Hongseok has sworn to keep to himself flow like water, light like wind, smooth and weightless. Jinho makes him run with time, bud upward, blossom outward, even when Hongseok doesn’t want to, has told himself he can’t. There’s something about holding hands with Jinho that makes Hongseok rethink his limitations.

Maybe Jinho will understand.

“Jinho! Dinner in five!” Jinho’s father yells, banging on the door five times before opening it, giving Hongseok just enough time to tumble off the mattress and pose awkwardly against the floor lamp. “Patch up the broken screen in your aunt’s room first though! She wants to sleep with the windows open but the hole’s big enough to let bugs in.”

“Fine.” Jinho drones, hiding his face under his blankets, naturally regressing under his father’s familiar gaze.

Hongseok feels momentary discomfort watching Jinho dig out a hot glue gun and tape from his desk and head on over to the guest room. There’s a west facing window, and its screen has a Mongolia shaped hole in the bottom left hand corner. He’s never had to fix a window screen, Hongseok thinks, watching Jinho hot glue around the hole in small trails before pressing tape down. Hongseok’s never had to replace anything at home, old replaced with new before it gets a chance to experience actual oldness. He squirms a bit, watching Jinho press down on the clear tape with stubby fingernails to avoid burning his finger pads, before Hongseok kneels down next to him.

“Let me finish.”

“I’m almost done.” Jinho protests, yelping when Hongseok grabs the hot glue gun.

“My nails are longer.” Hongseok replies, using his thumb to finish lining the patch.

“Why is your thumb nail longer?” Jinho acquiesces, sitting down off his knees as Hongseok closes the patch. “Is that a chef thing?”

“For pinching chives.” Hongseok replies. “And string beans. They’re like mini knives.”

 _I’m going to propose first_ , Hongseok faintly remembers thinking, when he’s chopping chives nearly two decades later. _Because Jinho made it official first, and gay relationships are supposed to be equal._

“Makes sense.” Jinho nods, unplugging the glue gun once Hongseok’s finished. “Let’s put this back before my demon mom yells at us for holding dinner up.”

Jinho is wrong, because his mother is the _sweetest_.

She gives Hongseok the last chicken leg even when Jinho wants it, chiding her son about manners and how tall people need to eat more.

The next morning she wakes them up with pour over coffee, beans ground down with a burr grinder instead of a blade one.

One year later Hongseok opens a package with a book about making at-home ferments and two albums of Jinho’s baby photos on his birthday.

Two years later Hongseok texts her a photo of Jinho drinking a green smoothie on the toilet; she immediately replies with a victorious apeach sticker even though it’s five in the morning.

Three years later Hongseok mails out his first Mother’s Day card.

___

Hongseok’s first love, for lack of a better word, is this boy named Kim Jiwon that he meets in San Diego.

He hadn’t planned to stay there long, just wanted to run away from home for a while and feel the California sunlight first hand, but after a few weeks of eating whatever, doing everything, going home in the late morning, and generally embracing life with reckless abandon, Hongseok doesn’t know that he can move back in with his parents. Freedom tastes too pure.

It’s meet cute at Westbean that’s extra crowded because Comic Con is that weekend and all the baristas are in cosplay. Jiwon’s at his own four person reclaimed mahogany table, and even though he looks a little scary he looks familiar, so Hongseok asks before sliding in the seat diagonal. A taller employee dressed up as Dumbledore gets his hat stuck in one of the glossy orange ceiling fans; Hongseok and Jiwon snicker and make eye contact; things go from there.

At first Hongseok thinks its just because he has an actual friend, not just a party or drinking buddy, and one who understands where he came from. Jiwon’s from out in the Midwest, with conservative, education-seeking immigrant parents that don’t really know what to make of their wannabe DJ son living it up in California. But Jiwon introduces him to a bunch of his other friends, and none of them get Hongseok the way that Jiwon does. Retrospect is embarrassing as hell, but in Hongseok had been a sheltered teenager who didn’t spend enough time sober.

Sometimes the lot of them will pile in Yunhyeong’s van for long road trips across the state, only stopping for gas and Doritos. Yunhyeong’s van is old and there’s air coming out of the vents even when the aircon is turned off, and the cold wind at their ankles gets a little unbearable, so Hongseok and Jiwon sit next to each other in the middle row and keep their feet in each other’s laps.

Jiwon takes Hongseok to his first Chipotle despite Hongseok’s protests of despising chain restaurants, where they eat burritos the size of small children, and Hongseok wants to moan and gripe about the fact minimum wage high schoolers are handling his steak but he’s a mess of sour cream and this strange green sauce and Jiwon is laughing too loud to hear him grumble anyway. Every time he passes by a Chipotle after that he remembers Jiwon’s guffaws; even when he goes back years later, the sound memories have faded but the image is clear as ever.

Hongseok tells Jiwon things that he hadn’t even considered saying out loud to himself, let alone verbalising to other people. He tells him about wanting to cook, about how his life feels like a depressing chain of inadequacies, about how as much as he brushes his family off he wishes his parents would be the ones to bridge the gap. About the times where he waits half an hour after working out, so the sweat dries and he ‘forgets’ he hasn’t showered because he doesn’t feel gross, until he hits his sheets and they feel sticky, but at that point it’s too late. About how he has a morbid fascination with checking the colour of his shit when he wipes his ass on the toilet; about how he likes watching petite chestnut hamsters eat human shaped foods on YouTube when he can’t fall asleep.

When Jiwon posts a status update he wants to drive there; when Jiwon seems frustrated Hongseok wants to show up with ice cream; when he sees shirts that he remembers seeing Jiwon in he wants to buy it in another colour way. He wants to be the first to know when Jiwon gets a new gig; the first person Jiwon texts when he’s bored; nothing feels shittier than hearing about Jiwon getting up to shit from someone else or after the fact on Twitter.

All this because Jiwon is the person wants to see when he’s annoyed, who we wants to vent to when he’s angry, wants to eat with when he hears about new restaurants. Jiwon’s the first person he thinks to tell when something good happens, when he’s going somewhere, when he wants to go somewhere together.

Westbean, where they end up returning to quite frequently, has a row of cacti growing on a shelf under a window. The windowsill itself is too narrow to support any aesthetic gardening endeavors, so there are silver bars under each opening, not unlike the ones in Hongseok’s bathroom for hanging towels. All the cacti, instead of growing straight, have a curve to them as they grow out and then back in, straining for the briefest glimpses of sun. Those plants are enticing, relatable, and he thinks about stealing one every time he goes, but never does.

Hongseok learns what it means to be of the world when he’s an eighteen year old boy, in love with a seventeen year old boy, while sprawled on this seventeen year old boy’s mattress, trying to convince the seventeen year old boy to go to a SM’Town Concert with him up in LA.

“Not all of us live off our daddies you bastard!” Jiwon erupts, when he’s had enough of Hongseok’s pestering. “If you want to go then go buy yourself or find someone else who doesn’t need a job!”

“Jeez.” Hongseok shrugs, so shocked his despair doesn’t have time to make its way to his face.

“Look man, I just don’t have the cash and if I did I’d want to spend it on something else. You’re lucky. Get someone else to go. Hanbin might want to.” Jiwon replies, looking up from league for a brief moment before returning his attention to his laptop.

Hongseok doesn’t remember what happens after that, but he leaves at some point, and the argument doesn’t heighten, but the world looks different after he realises that two people will only ever be as close as their hands are. Maybe together, never the same.

Jiwon is the only person, other than Hongseok, who knows he’s unemployed. Who knows that Hongseok’s a useless piece of privileged shit, who wastes his days away watching YouTube and napping until his other friends are free to hang out. Who knows that Hongseok wants to get a job, wants to start being a functioning, responsible adult; who also knows that every time Hongseok starts to piece together a CV he gets crushed with voices telling him he’s unqualified, delicate, to good for retail work, not good enough for customer service, one of the most sheltered eighteen year olds in the world, until he’s unable to bear the weight of them all. It’s stressful; it makes him anxious; Hongseok unpins Microsoft Word from his start screen and stops asking for his account balance when he takes out cash. He represses, forgets, until he stops feeling ashamed every time he meets someone’s eye.

Jiwon isn’t Hongseok’s mother; isn’t his father. Jiwon isn’t one of the assholes from Hongseok’s academy who deleted his number when they found out he was running away. Jiwon was supposed to be Hongseok’s person, on Hongseok’s side, was supposed to acknowledge how precious Hongseok’s innermost secrets were instead of keeping them as ammunition and firing when advantageous.

It’s the people you let in that hurt you, a realisation that makes all the evil seem so much closer than they did days before. Drama, betrayal, distrust—all of those are things that Hongseok has to go through, not just sensationalised tabloid headings that narrate celebrity Twitter happenings. Depression, schizophrenia, dissociative personality disorder—all of those are happening around him, not just to people far, far away. Poverty, homelessness, unemployment checks—realities, imminent.

Meeting someone for the first time, being honest for the first time, falling in love for the first time, taking his first step into the world around him instead of existing around it. A world where that girl on the news might have an eating disorder, but so might his friend sitting right across from him. Where sometimes who you know is more important than what you know, and how far you’re willing to spread your legs above both.

Hongseok pretends things are okay for a few weeks, constantly high strung. He wakes up in the morning, wonders if someone he knows has been hit by a car. Grabs lunch with Junhoe and wonders if he’s vomitting when he leaves to use the restroom.

He runs away to school, when enough is enough. School isn’t work but it’s also not unemployment—Hongseok’s been through school, he knows how to do school. There’s a culinary school in China run by a celebrity chef his father is close with; after a few phone calls Hongseok leaves. Everyone he’s met bid him goodbye, with vague mentions of keeping in touch, but eighteen year old Hongseok is young enough and old enough to know they won’t last.

If he has to die alone, he may as well do it painlessly.

____

“This beef is so peppery.” Hongseok’s mother sighs, setting the fork Hongseok had to make a special trip to the supermarket for down. “I always have Arnold make ours with more garlic. It’s good for your digestion, and has so much more flavour. Right honey?”

Hongseok’s father knows better than to respond.

“My mother sometimes uses garlic too.” Jinho replies, blatantly disingenuous beam on his face. “Whenever we have guests who can’t handle their spice well she replaces some of the red pepper paste in the marinade with minced garlic.”

“My, it really is warm in here.” His mother replies, perfectly on beat. “If you two don’t have the funds to keep an aircon on we’d be more than able to chip in for the utilities we use during dinner.”

“It’s actually to conserve energy, we’ve recently been more aware of the resources we use.” Jinho retorts, still grinning. “Does Singapore have anyone to teach sciences in the school system yet?”

It’s maybe 0,5% the fact they want to save energy and 99,5% the fact Jinho could catch a cold at noon in Bali, but Hongseok knows better than to chime in.

After dinner the four go on a walk around the neighbourhood, Hongseok and his father lagging behind as Jinho and his mother squabble over the merits of red brick and grey stone.

“Congratulations on the wedding.” Hongseok’s father breaks their silence, or more accurately audience status, since both had been listening to Hongseok’s mother rant about grey stone’s ability to hold up during theoretical fires.

“Thank you.” Hongseok replies, not being able to recall the last time he and his father had spoken without a third party.

He’s lying to himself—he remembers.

Seven year old Hongseok and his mother went to IMM on the first day of second grade because he wanted new sneakers. There had been tons of stores, shoes, brands, all on shiny glass pedestals with clean serif descriptions. His mother hadn’t cared, and the options were overwhelming, but finding the Nike shoe had been like coming home after a long day at the playground.

Hongseok’s father’s entire leisure closet is Nike, from his trainers to his jackets to his t shirts to his compression shorts. Seven year old Hongseok wants to be like his father, with a lot of people to boss around and a waxy white marble tiled office, so he picks a pair of black Nike trainers with a white sole and his mother pays for the purchase without looking up from her phone. He’s giddy the entire way home, even through the four hours he spends waiting in the office of a restaurant while his mother has afternoon tea with some other socialites, so eager to tell his father they’re matching that he’s dripping with it.

Hongseok’s putting the shoes on when his father comes home that evening, governess letting him slide them on even though he’s already in his pajamas because she’s weak when he begs. Laces are still a little tricky, especially when they match the colour of the shoe and he can’t see them too clearly, so Hongseok doesn’t have any time to say anything before his father sees the new purchase.

“Return those.” Hongseok’s father says as soon as he sees the Nike’s, turning immediately back to his mother.

“What are you talking about? The kid spent the entire afternoon picking them out and now you want us to go back?”

“Find him a different brand.” His father continues, not sparing Hongseok a second glance. “Not Nike. Those are my signature. Give him something else.”

“Honey, they’re not even custom. Just let the kid have his shoes. I’m busy tomorrow.”

“Then have the governess take him. Toss these ones if you don’t have time to go tomorrow.” Hongseok’s father finishes, before making his way to the elevator and leaving the two unsatisfied.

Seven year old Hongseok, without knowing that he’s clinging to the last of all the familial expectations he’ll carry for the rest of life, throws a fit by ignoring his father and hoping someone will ask him what’s wrong.

Nobody does. His mother takes him back in a week or so, and this time she picks out a pair of more or less the exact trainers with New Balance’s N on the side instead of Nike’s swoosh, just to spite his father. Hongseok wears the shoes, ignores his father, and grows up.

“We raised you well.” Hongseok’s father continues, twenty nine autumns later. There are crow’s feet peeking through that even Restylane can’t hide now, and his posture is more retired golf athlete than commanding businessman, but he’s still frustrating as hell. “You grew up well.”

Hongseok has spent the last decade making sure he doesn’t sound like his father when he speaks; Hongseok really doesn’t want to be having this conversation right now. But it’s been a long time. Both of them are married, basically. Both of them have jobs. Both of them have homes. Both of them are still wearing Nike’s and New Balance, walking side by side. Hongseok’s too old to be seven.

“Thank you father.” Hongseok replies. “I’m really glad you guys were able to make it.”

“How could we miss our first son’s wedding.” His father laughs in response. “Took you long enough, might I add. How long have you and Jinyoung been seeing each other again?”

“Thirteen years.”

“That’s a long time.” His father replies, nodding. “You should visit sometime, after the honeymoon.”

All Hongseok can do is laugh.

___

Going home for Christmas feels like running a victory lap; Hongseok doesn’t dwell on why the fuck he still refers to the Yang Manor as ‘home.’

Every piece of shit human being he could justifiably blame for everything wrong with his state of mind all gathered in one place, lined up and ready for Hongseok to fire down with his presence. Because he’s not a homeless good for nothing cast out anymore, he’s a with-home good at lots of things cast out with no more debt and a hot boyfriend. Fuck them all, and may they all eat seventy-seven thousand dicks.

He tries to contain his excitement a little before they land, because Hongseok knows that Jinho doesn’t necessarily think highly of his parents, and that’s mostly his fault, but once the manor is in sight Hongseok is visibly shaking.

“Your parents are terrible.” Jinho repeats, hands clenching into fists. “And you are their son.”

Hongseok doesn’t understand how he could have been this wrong.

Jinho isn’t Hongseok’s mother; isn’t his father. Jinho isn’t one of the assholes from Hongseok’s academy who deleted his number when they found out he was running away; Jinho isn’t Jiwon. Jinho was supposed to be Hongseok’s person, was supposed to understand.

Hongseok lets Jinho rot away in the guest wing for a few days; impenitent, puerile anger flaring every time Hongseok has to explain that his boyfriend’s sick due to climate adjustments. It gets worse after a few days of following his mother on her shopping sprees, playing racquet ball with the Hong’s, taking afternoon tea with the Lee’s daughter—it gets worse because after a few days Hongseok starts to worry.

Because Hongseok, past the bursts of triviality, knows that Jo Jinho is still his person. Knows that Jinho had found him in the depths of hell and pitched a tent to share, knows that he could tell Jinho anything. He’s eaten a life time of dinners sat across his parents, watching the soulless smile mother throws father when someone compliments their chef, drank two lifetimes of imported aged green tea, from bone china cups with art richer than the accompanying conversation. He wants to eat Lotte cakes on their secondhand couch, wants to argue about how Jinho washes the dishes, wants to go back home before he gets used to waking up in bed cold.

Even though he considers himself a straightforward person, even though Hongseok still loves him, it’s scary when it comes to Jinho, because there’s so much at stake. So instead of mending ties Hongseok just waits, comforted by the simple face they’re sleeping in the same bed again, and tries to work up the courage.

Then Jinho doesn’t come home.

At six in the evening Hongseok starts to dig through their fridge, wondering what to eat.

At six thirty Hongseok is concerned, digs his phone out of his work bag, and wilts when he sees the text about eating dinner with Baekhyun.

At seven Hongseok realises he’d rather cut his hand off than continue to chop these goddam onions, so he tosses all the foodstuff in the trash and goes out to grab Thai food.

At eight Hongseok has a flicker of resentment and tries to eat the extra takeout container of noodles he grabbed instinctively, but chickens out and just leaves the container on the table.

At nine Hongseok realises that he’s been home for nearly five hours and all he’s done in that time is eat and hate himself.

At ten, nothing changes.

At eleven, things are starting to look hopeless.

Every square centimeter of skin on Hongseok’s body is trying to shift, to leave the table, to move his stuff, to pack his shit up because everything hurts unendingly. It would be easier to run away again, to just let the silence consume them until Hongseok can detach himself from the situation.

But it wouldn’t be easier, to stop texting Jinho’s mother, to delete her number and be reminded that he’s deleted her number every time he eats kimchi. To move out, find another studio, not have anyone to open the door for him when he comes home late. To sort through the metric shitton of stuff he’s accumulated since moving to Korea, and having to decide if a shirt is his because he bought it or Jinho’s because the person who bought it likes it better on Jinho. To awkwardly hover over photos Hwitaek or Hyojong post on facebook, wondering if he’s allowed to like or comment. To start waking up alone again, cooking for one, remembering Jinho every time he does his own dishes. Disentangling is impossible.

Jinho comes back at two in the morning.

“I’m really thankful for you.” Hongseok starts, looking at the rice noodles because it wouldn’t tear him to pieces if they left.

It’s still cold, the sun isn’t out, and Hongseok is shivering with the difference between his racing internal temperature and the frigid moonlight he’s met with. He wants to run away, stand up, stay silent, wither away, wait for warmer weather. But instead he opens, bares himself, still in love, heart in bloom.


End file.
